The soldier, astonished to be thus assailed by a monk, stood for a moment speechless; and before he could find words Sigurd had cast back the hood from his own head.
The man, who knew him at once, turned pale as ashes, and, trembling from head to foot, fell on his knees.
But Sigurd scornfully bade him rise and summon the guard, which he did. Great was the amazement of the soldiers as they assembled, to see a monk bareheaded stand with his hand on the throat of their comrade. And greater still did it become when they recognised in those stern, noble features their own Prince Sigurd.
Before they could recover their presence of mind, Sigurd held up his hand to enjoin silence, and said—
“Let two men go at once to the dungeon and bring the prisoner out.”
While they were gone the group stood silent, as men half dazed, and wondered what would happen next.
In a few moments the two guards returned, bringing with them the prisoner, whom Sigurd greeted with every token of gratitude and joy.
“Brave friend,” he exclaimed, “but for thy generous devotion this night might have ended in murder and ruin, and these knaves and their friends might have done their king and me a grievous wrong. Accept Sigurd’s thanks.”
“What!” exclaimed the prisoner, falling on his knees, “art thou Sigurd? Do I owe my poor life to the bravest of all heroes?”
“I owe my life to thee, rather,” said Sigurd; “and not mine only, but my brother’s.” Then turning to the bewildered and shame-struck soldiers, he said—